The war of the worlds

“That!” said the curate, when presently it happened again.

“Yes,” I said. “But what is it?”

“A Martian!” said the curate.

I listened again.

“It was not like the Heat-Ray,” I said, and for a time I was inclined
to think one of the great fighting-machines had stumbled against the
house, as I had seen one stumble against the tower of Shepperton
Church.

Our situation was so strange and incomprehensible that for three or
four hours, until the dawn came, we scarcely moved. And then the light
filtered in, not through the window, which remained black, but through
a triangular aperture between a beam and a heap of broken bricks in the
wall behind us. The interior of the kitchen we now saw greyly for the
first time.

The window had been burst in by a mass of garden mould, which flowed
over the table upon which we had been sitting and lay about our feet.
Outside, the soil was banked high against the house. At the top of the
window frame we could see an uprooted drainpipe. The floor was littered
with smashed hardware; the end of the kitchen towards the house was
broken into, and since the daylight shone in there, it was evident the
greater part of the house had collapsed. Contrasting vividly with this
ruin was the neat dresser, stained in the fashion, pale green, and with
a number of copper and tin vessels below it, the wallpaper imitating
blue and white tiles, and a couple of coloured supplements fluttering
from the walls above the kitchen range.

As the dawn grew clearer, we saw through the gap in the wall the body
of a Martian, standing sentinel, I suppose, over the still glowing
cylinder. At the sight of that we crawled as circumspectly as possible
out of the twilight of the kitchen into the darkness of the scullery.

Abruptly the right interpretation dawned upon my mind.

“The fifth cylinder,” I whispered, “the fifth shot from Mars, has
struck this house and buried us under the ruins!”

For a time the curate was silent, and then he whispered:

“God have mercy upon us!”

I heard him presently whimpering to himself.

Save for that sound we lay quite still in the scullery; I for my part
scarce dared breathe, and sat with my eyes fixed on the faint light of
the kitchen door. I could just see the curate’s face, a dim, oval
shape, and his collar and cuffs. Outside there began a metallic
hammering, then a violent hooting, and then again, after a quiet
interval, a hissing like the hissing of an engine. These noises, for
the most part problematical, continued intermittently, and seemed if
anything to increase in number as time wore on. Presently a measured
thudding and a vibration that made everything about us quiver and the
vessels in the pantry ring and shift, began and continued. Once the
light was eclipsed, and the ghostly kitchen doorway became absolutely
dark. For many hours we must have crouched there, silent and shivering,
until our tired attention failed. . . .

At last I found myself awake and very hungry. I am inclined to believe
we must have spent the greater portion of a day before that awakening.
My hunger was at a stride so insistent that it moved me to action. I
told the curate I was going to seek food, and felt my way towards the
pantry. He made me no answer, but so soon as I began eating the faint
noise I made stirred him up and I heard him crawling after me.

II.
WHAT WE SAW FROM THE RUINED HOUSE.

After eating we crept back to the scullery, and there I must have dozed
again, for when presently I looked round I was alone. The thudding
vibration continued with wearisome persistence. I whispered for the
curate several times, and at last felt my way to the door of the
kitchen. It was still daylight, and I perceived him across the room,
lying against the triangular hole that looked out upon the Martians.
His shoulders were hunched, so that his head was hidden from me.

I could hear a number of noises almost like those in an engine shed;
and the place rocked with that beating thud. Through the aperture in
the wall I could see the top of a tree touched with gold and the warm
blue of a tranquil evening sky. For a minute or so I remained watching
the curate, and then I advanced, crouching and stepping with extreme
care amid the broken crockery that littered the floor.

I touched the curate’s leg, and he started so violently that a mass of
plaster went sliding down outside and fell with a loud impact. I
gripped his arm, fearing he might cry out, and for a long time we
crouched motionless. Then I turned to see how much of our rampart
remained. The detachment of the plaster had left a vertical slit open
in the debris, and by raising myself cautiously across a beam I was
able to see out of this gap into what had been overnight a quiet
suburban roadway. Vast, indeed, was the change that we beheld.

The fifth cylinder must have fallen right into the midst of the house
we had first visited. The building had vanished, completely smashed,
pulverised, and dispersed by the blow. The cylinder lay now far beneath
the original foundations—deep in a hole, already vastly larger than the
pit I had looked into at Woking. The earth all round it had splashed
under that tremendous impact—“splashed” is the only word—and lay in
heaped piles that hid the masses of the adjacent houses. It had behaved
exactly like mud under the violent blow of a hammer. Our house had
collapsed backward; the front portion, even on the ground floor, had
been destroyed completely; by a chance the kitchen and scullery had
escaped, and stood buried now under soil and ruins, closed in by tons
of earth on every side save towards the cylinder. Over that aspect we
hung now on the very edge of the great circular pit the Martians were
engaged in making. The heavy beating sound was evidently just behind
us, and ever and again a bright green vapour drove up like a veil
across our peephole.

The cylinder was already opened in the centre of the pit, and on the
farther edge of the pit, amid the smashed and gravel-heaped shrubbery,
one of the great fighting-machines, deserted by its occupant, stood
stiff and tall against the evening sky. At first I scarcely noticed the
pit and the cylinder, although it has been convenient to describe them
first, on account of the extraordinary glittering mechanism I saw busy
in the excavation, and on account of the strange creatures that were
crawling slowly and painfully across the heaped mould near it.

The mechanism it certainly was that held my attention first. It was one
of those complicated fabrics that have since been called
handling-machines, and the study of which has already given such an
enormous impetus to terrestrial invention. As it dawned upon me first,
it presented a sort of metallic spider with five jointed, agile legs,
and with an extraordinary number of jointed levers, bars, and reaching
and clutching tentacles about its body. Most of its arms were
retracted, but with three long tentacles it was fishing out a number of
rods, plates, and bars which lined the covering and apparently
strengthened the walls of the cylinder. These, as it extracted them,
were lifted out and deposited upon a level surface of earth behind it.

Its motion was so swift, complex, and perfect that at first I did not
see it as a machine, in spite of its metallic glitter. The
fighting-machines were coordinated and animated to an extraordinary
pitch, but nothing to compare with this. People who have never seen
these structures, and have only the ill-imagined efforts of artists or
the imperfect descriptions of such eye-witnesses as myself to go upon,
scarcely realise that living quality.

I recall particularly the illustration of one of the first pamphlets to
give a consecutive account of the war. The artist had evidently made a
hasty study of one of the fighting-machines, and there his knowledge
ended. He presented them as tilted, stiff tripods, without either
flexibility or subtlety, and with an altogether misleading monotony of
effect. The pamphlet containing these renderings had a considerable
vogue, and I mention them here simply to warn the reader against the
impression they may have created. They were no more like the Martians I
saw in action than a Dutch doll is like a human being. To my mind, the
pamphlet would have been much better without them.

At first, I say, the handling-machine did not impress me as a machine,
but as a crablike creature with a glittering integument, the
controlling Martian whose delicate tentacles actuated its movements
seeming to be simply the equivalent of the crab’s cerebral portion. But
then I perceived the resemblance of its grey-brown, shiny, leathery
integument to that of the other sprawling bodies beyond, and the true
nature of this dexterous workman dawned upon me. With that realisation
my interest shifted to those other creatures, the real Martians.
Already I had had a transient impression of these, and the first nausea
no longer obscured my observation. Moreover, I was concealed and
motionless, and under no urgency of action.

They were, I now saw, the most unearthly creatures it is possible to
conceive. They were huge round bodies—or, rather, heads—about four feet
in diameter, each body having in front of it a face. This face had no
nostrils—indeed, the Martians do not seem to have had any sense of
smell, but it had a pair of very large dark-coloured eyes, and just
beneath this a kind of fleshy beak. In the back of this head or body—I
scarcely know how to speak of it—was the single tight tympanic surface,
since known to be anatomically an ear, though it must have been almost
useless in our dense air. In a group round the mouth were sixteen
slender, almost whiplike tentacles, arranged in two bunches of eight
each. These bunches have since been named rather aptly, by that
distinguished anatomist, Professor Howes, the _hands_. Even as I saw
these Martians for the first time they seemed to be endeavouring to
raise themselves on these hands, but of course, with the increased
weight of terrestrial conditions, this was impossible. There is reason
to suppose that on Mars they may have progressed upon them with some
facility.

The internal anatomy, I may remark here, as dissection has since shown,
was almost equally simple. The greater part of the structure was the
brain, sending enormous nerves to the eyes, ear, and tactile tentacles.
Besides this were the bulky lungs, into which the mouth opened, and the
heart and its vessels. The pulmonary distress caused by the denser
atmosphere and greater gravitational attraction was only too evident in
the convulsive movements of the outer skin.

And this was the sum of the Martian organs. Strange as it may seem to a
human being, all the complex apparatus of digestion, which makes up the
bulk of our bodies, did not exist in the Martians. They were
heads—merely heads. Entrails they had none. They did not eat, much less
digest. Instead, they took the fresh, living blood of other creatures,
and _injected_ it into their own veins. I have myself seen this being
done, as I shall mention in its place. But, squeamish as I may seem, I
cannot bring myself to describe what I could not endure even to
continue watching. Let it suffice to say, blood obtained from a still
living animal, in most cases from a human being, was run directly by
means of a little pipette into the recipient canal. . . .

The bare idea of this is no doubt horribly repulsive to us, but at the
same time I think that we should remember how repulsive our carnivorous
habits would seem to an intelligent rabbit.

The physiological advantages of the practice of injection are
undeniable, if one thinks of the tremendous waste of human time and
energy occasioned by eating and the digestive process. Our bodies are
half made up of glands and tubes and organs, occupied in turning
heterogeneous food into blood. The digestive processes and their
reaction upon the nervous system sap our strength and colour our minds.
Men go happy or miserable as they have healthy or unhealthy livers, or
sound gastric glands. But the Martians were lifted above all these
organic fluctuations of mood and emotion.

Their undeniable preference for men as their source of nourishment is
partly explained by the nature of the remains of the victims they had
brought with them as provisions from Mars. These creatures, to judge
from the shrivelled remains that have fallen into human hands, were
bipeds with flimsy, silicious skeletons (almost like those of the
silicious sponges) and feeble musculature, standing about six feet high
and having round, erect heads, and large eyes in flinty sockets. Two or
three of these seem to have been brought in each cylinder, and all were
killed before earth was reached. It was just as well for them, for the
mere attempt to stand upright upon our planet would have broken every
bone in their bodies.

And while I am engaged in this description, I may add in this place
certain further details which, although they were not all evident to us
at the time, will enable the reader who is unacquainted with them to
form a clearer picture of these offensive creatures.

In three other points their physiology differed strangely from ours.
Their organisms did not sleep, any more than the heart of man sleeps.
Since they had no extensive muscular mechanism to recuperate, that
periodical extinction was unknown to them. They had little or no sense
of fatigue, it would seem. On earth they could never have moved without
effort, yet even to the last they kept in action. In twenty-four hours
they did twenty-four hours of work, as even on earth is perhaps the
case with the ants.

In the next place, wonderful as it seems in a sexual world, the
Martians were absolutely without sex, and therefore without any of the
tumultuous emotions that arise from that difference among men. A young
Martian, there can now be no dispute, was really born upon earth during
the war, and it was found attached to its parent, partially _budded_
off, just as young lilybulbs bud off, or like the young animals in the
fresh-water polyp.

In man, in all the higher terrestrial animals, such a method of
increase has disappeared; but even on this earth it was certainly the
primitive method. Among the lower animals, up even to those first
cousins of the vertebrated animals, the Tunicates, the two processes
occur side by side, but finally the sexual method superseded its
competitor altogether. On Mars, however, just the reverse has
apparently been the case.

It is worthy of remark that a certain speculative writer of
quasi-scientific repute, writing long before the Martian invasion, did
forecast for man a final structure not unlike the actual Martian
condition. His prophecy, I remember, appeared in November or December,
1893, in a long-defunct publication, the _Pall Mall Budget_, and I
recall a caricature of it in a pre-Martian periodical called _Punch_.
He pointed out—writing in a foolish, facetious tone—that the perfection
of mechanical appliances must ultimately supersede limbs; the
perfection of chemical devices, digestion; that such organs as hair,
external nose, teeth, ears, and chin were no longer essential parts of
the human being, and that the tendency of natural selection would lie
in the direction of their steady diminution through the coming ages.
The brain alone remained a cardinal necessity. Only one other part of
the body had a strong case for survival, and that was the hand,
“teacher and agent of the brain.” While the rest of the body dwindled,
the hands would grow larger.

There is many a true word written in jest, and here in the Martians we
have beyond dispute the actual accomplishment of such a suppression of
the animal side of the organism by the intelligence. To me it is quite
credible that the Martians may be descended from beings not unlike
ourselves, by a gradual development of brain and hands (the latter
giving rise to the two bunches of delicate tentacles at last) at the
expense of the rest of the body. Without the body the brain would, of
course, become a mere selfish intelligence, without any of the
emotional substratum of the human being.

The last salient point in which the systems of these creatures differed
from ours was in what one might have thought a very trivial particular.
Micro-organisms, which cause so much disease and pain on earth, have
either never appeared upon Mars or Martian sanitary science eliminated
them ages ago. A hundred diseases, all the fevers and contagions of
human life, consumption, cancers, tumours and such morbidities, never
enter the scheme of their life. And speaking of the differences between
the life on Mars and terrestrial life, I may allude here to the curious
suggestions of the red weed.

Apparently the vegetable kingdom in Mars, instead of having green for a
dominant colour, is of a vivid blood-red tint. At any rate, the seeds
which the Martians (intentionally or accidentally) brought with them
gave rise in all cases to red-coloured growths. Only that known
popularly as the red weed, however, gained any footing in competition
with terrestrial forms. The red creeper was quite a transitory growth,
and few people have seen it growing. For a time, however, the red weed
grew with astonishing vigour and luxuriance. It spread up the sides of
the pit by the third or fourth day of our imprisonment, and its
cactus-like branches formed a carmine fringe to the edges of our
triangular window. And afterwards I found it broadcast throughout the
country, and especially wherever there was a stream of water.

The Martians had what appears to have been an auditory organ, a single
round drum at the back of the head-body, and eyes with a visual range
not very different from ours except that, according to Philips, blue
and violet were as black to them. It is commonly supposed that they
communicated by sounds and tentacular gesticulations; this is asserted,
for instance, in the able but hastily compiled pamphlet (written
evidently by someone not an eye-witness of Martian actions) to which I
have already alluded, and which, so far, has been the chief source of
information concerning them. Now no surviving human being saw so much
of the Martians in action as I did. I take no credit to myself for an
accident, but the fact is so. And I assert that I watched them closely
time after time, and that I have seen four, five, and (once) six of
them sluggishly performing the most elaborately complicated operations
together without either sound or gesture. Their peculiar hooting
invariably preceded feeding; it had no modulation, and was, I believe,
in no sense a signal, but merely the expiration of air preparatory to
the suctional operation. I have a certain claim to at least an
elementary knowledge of psychology, and in this matter I am
convinced—as firmly as I am convinced of anything—that the Martians
interchanged thoughts without any physical intermediation. And I have
been convinced of this in spite of strong preconceptions. Before the
Martian invasion, as an occasional reader here or there may remember, I
had written with some little vehemence against the telepathic theory.

The Martians wore no clothing. Their conceptions of ornament and
decorum were necessarily different from ours; and not only were they
evidently much less sensible of changes of temperature than we are, but
changes of pressure do not seem to have affected their health at all
seriously. Yet though they wore no clothing, it was in the other
artificial additions to their bodily resources that their great
superiority over man lay. We men, with our bicycles and road-skates,
our Lilienthal soaring-machines, our guns and sticks and so forth, are
just in the beginning of the evolution that the Martians have worked
out. They have become practically mere brains, wearing different bodies
according to their needs just as men wear suits of clothes and take a
bicycle in a hurry or an umbrella in the wet. And of their appliances,
perhaps nothing is more wonderful to a man than the curious fact that
what is the dominant feature of almost all human devices in mechanism
is absent—the _wheel_ is absent; among all the things they brought to
earth there is no trace or suggestion of their use of wheels. One would
have at least expected it in locomotion. And in this connection it is
curious to remark that even on this earth Nature has never hit upon the
wheel, or has preferred other expedients to its development. And not
only did the Martians either not know of (which is incredible), or
abstain from, the wheel, but in their apparatus singularly little use
is made of the fixed pivot or relatively fixed pivot, with circular
motions thereabout confined to one plane. Almost all the joints of the
machinery present a complicated system of sliding parts moving over
small but beautifully curved friction bearings. And while upon this
matter of detail, it is remarkable that the long leverages of their
machines are in most cases actuated by a sort of sham musculature of
the disks in an elastic sheath; these disks become polarised and drawn
closely and powerfully together when traversed by a current of
electricity. In this way the curious parallelism to animal motions,
which was so striking and disturbing to the human beholder, was
attained. Such quasi-muscles abounded in the crablike handling-machine
which, on my first peeping out of the slit, I watched unpacking the
cylinder. It seemed infinitely more alive than the actual Martians
lying beyond it in the sunset light, panting, stirring ineffectual
tentacles, and moving feebly after their vast journey across space.

While I was still watching their sluggish motions in the sunlight, and
noting each strange detail of their form, the curate reminded me of his
presence by pulling violently at my arm. I turned to a scowling face,
and silent, eloquent lips. He wanted the slit, which permitted only one
of us to peep through; and so I had to forego watching them for a time
while he enjoyed that privilege.

When I looked again, the busy handling-machine had already put together
several of the pieces of apparatus it had taken out of the cylinder
into a shape having an unmistakable likeness to its own; and down on
the left a busy little digging mechanism had come into view, emitting
jets of green vapour and working its way round the pit, excavating and
embanking in a methodical and discriminating manner. This it was which
had caused the regular beating noise, and the rhythmic shocks that had
kept our ruinous refuge quivering. It piped and whistled as it worked.
So far as I could see, the thing was without a directing Martian at
all.

III.
THE DAYS OF IMPRISONMENT.

The arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us from our peephole
into the scullery, for we feared that from his elevation the Martian
might see down upon us behind our barrier. At a later date we began to
feel less in danger of their eyes, for to an eye in the dazzle of the
sunlight outside our refuge must have been blank blackness, but at
first the slightest suggestion of approach drove us into the scullery
in heart-throbbing retreat. Yet terrible as was the danger we incurred,
the attraction of peeping was for both of us irresistible. And I recall
now with a sort of wonder that, in spite of the infinite danger in
which we were between starvation and a still more terrible death, we
could yet struggle bitterly for that horrible privilege of sight. We
would race across the kitchen in a grotesque way between eagerness and
the dread of making a noise, and strike each other, and thrust and
kick, within a few inches of exposure.

The fact is that we had absolutely incompatible dispositions and habits
of thought and action, and our danger and isolation only accentuated
the incompatibility. At Halliford I had already come to hate the
curate’s trick of helpless exclamation, his stupid rigidity of mind.
His endless muttering monologue vitiated every effort I made to think
out a line of action, and drove me at times, thus pent up and
intensified, almost to the verge of craziness. He was as lacking in
restraint as a silly woman. He would weep for hours together, and I
verily believe that to the very end this spoiled child of life thought
his weak tears in some way efficacious. And I would sit in the darkness
unable to keep my mind off him by reason of his importunities. He ate
more than I did, and it was in vain I pointed out that our only chance
of life was to stop in the house until the Martians had done with their
pit, that in that long patience a time might presently come when we
should need food. He ate and drank impulsively in heavy meals at long
intervals. He slept little.

As the days wore on, his utter carelessness of any consideration so
intensified our distress and danger that I had, much as I loathed doing
it, to resort to threats, and at last to blows. That brought him to
reason for a time. But he was one of those weak creatures, void of
pride, timorous, anæmic, hateful souls, full of shifty cunning, who
face neither God nor man, who face not even themselves.

It is disagreeable for me to recall and write these things, but I set
them down that my story may lack nothing. Those who have escaped the
dark and terrible aspects of life will find my brutality, my flash of
rage in our final tragedy, easy enough to blame; for they know what is
wrong as well as any, but not what is possible to tortured men. But
those who have been under the shadow, who have gone down at last to
elemental things, will have a wider charity.

And while within we fought out our dark, dim contest of whispers,
snatched food and drink, and gripping hands and blows, without, in the
pitiless sunlight of that terrible June, was the strange wonder, the
unfamiliar routine of the Martians in the pit. Let me return to those
first new experiences of mine. After a long time I ventured back to the
peephole, to find that the new-comers had been reinforced by the
occupants of no fewer than three of the fighting-machines. These last
had brought with them certain fresh appliances that stood in an orderly
manner about the cylinder. The second handling-machine was now
completed, and was busied in serving one of the novel contrivances the
big machine had brought. This was a body resembling a milk can in its
general form, above which oscillated a pear-shaped receptacle, and from
which a stream of white powder flowed into a circular basin below.

The oscillatory motion was imparted to this by one tentacle of the
handling-machine. With two spatulate hands the handling-machine was
digging out and flinging masses of clay into the pear-shaped receptacle
above, while with another arm it periodically opened a door and removed
rusty and blackened clinkers from the middle part of the machine.
Another steely tentacle directed the powder from the basin along a
ribbed channel towards some receiver that was hidden from me by the
mound of bluish dust. From this unseen receiver a little thread of
green smoke rose vertically into the quiet air. As I looked, the
handling-machine, with a faint and musical clinking, extended,
telescopic fashion, a tentacle that had been a moment before a mere
blunt projection, until its end was hidden behind the mound of clay. In
another second it had lifted a bar of white aluminium into sight,
untarnished as yet, and shining dazzlingly, and deposited it in a
growing stack of bars that stood at the side of the pit. Between sunset
and starlight this dexterous machine must have made more than a hundred
such bars out of the crude clay, and the mound of bluish dust rose
steadily until it topped the side of the pit.

The contrast between the swift and complex movements of these
contrivances and the inert panting clumsiness of their masters was
acute, and for days I had to tell myself repeatedly that these latter
were indeed the living of the two things.

The curate had possession of the slit when the first men were brought
to the pit. I was sitting below, huddled up, listening with all my
ears. He made a sudden movement backward, and I, fearful that we were
observed, crouched in a spasm of terror. He came sliding down the
rubbish and crept beside me in the darkness, inarticulate,
gesticulating, and for a moment I shared his panic. His gesture
suggested a resignation of the slit, and after a little while my
curiosity gave me courage, and I rose up, stepped across him, and
clambered up to it. At first I could see no reason for his frantic
behaviour. The twilight had now come, the stars were little and faint,
but the pit was illuminated by the flickering green fire that came from
the aluminium-making. The whole picture was a flickering scheme of
green gleams and shifting rusty black shadows, strangely trying to the
eyes. Over and through it all went the bats, heeding it not at all. The
sprawling Martians were no longer to be seen, the mound of blue-green
powder had risen to cover them from sight, and a fighting-machine, with
its legs contracted, crumpled, and abbreviated, stood across the corner
of the pit. And then, amid the clangour of the machinery, came a
drifting suspicion of human voices, that I entertained at first only to
dismiss.

I crouched, watching this fighting-machine closely, satisfying myself
now for the first time that the hood did indeed contain a Martian. As
the green flames lifted I could see the oily gleam of his integument
and the brightness of his eyes. And suddenly I heard a yell, and saw a
long tentacle reaching over the shoulder of the machine to the little
cage that hunched upon its back. Then something—something struggling
violently—was lifted high against the sky, a black, vague enigma
against the starlight; and as this black object came down again, I saw
by the green brightness that it was a man. For an instant he was
clearly visible. He was a stout, ruddy, middle-aged man, well dressed;
three days before, he must have been walking the world, a man of
considerable consequence. I could see his staring eyes and gleams of
light on his studs and watch chain. He vanished behind the mound, and
for a moment there was silence. And then began a shrieking and a
sustained and cheerful hooting from the Martians.

I slid down the rubbish, struggled to my feet, clapped my hands over my
ears, and bolted into the scullery. The curate, who had been crouching
silently with his arms over his head, looked up as I passed, cried out
quite loudly at my desertion of him, and came running after me.

That night, as we lurked in the scullery, balanced between our horror
and the terrible fascination this peeping had, although I felt an
urgent need of action I tried in vain to conceive some plan of escape;
but afterwards, during the second day, I was able to consider our
position with great clearness. The curate, I found, was quite incapable
of discussion; this new and culminating atrocity had robbed him of all
vestiges of reason or forethought. Practically he had already sunk to
the level of an animal. But as the saying goes, I gripped myself with
both hands. It grew upon my mind, once I could face the facts, that
terrible as our position was, there was as yet no justification for
absolute despair. Our chief chance lay in the possibility of the
Martians making the pit nothing more than a temporary encampment. Or
even if they kept it permanently, they might not consider it necessary
to guard it, and a chance of escape might be afforded us. I also
weighed very carefully the possibility of our digging a way out in a
direction away from the pit, but the chances of our emerging within
sight of some sentinel fighting-machine seemed at first too great. And
I should have had to do all the digging myself. The curate would
certainly have failed me.

It was on the third day, if my memory serves me right, that I saw the
lad killed. It was the only occasion on which I actually saw the
Martians feed. After that experience I avoided the hole in the wall for
the better part of a day. I went into the scullery, removed the door,
and spent some hours digging with my hatchet as silently as possible;
but when I had made a hole about a couple of feet deep the loose earth
collapsed noisily, and I did not dare continue. I lost heart, and lay
down on the scullery floor for a long time, having no spirit even to
move. And after that I abandoned altogether the idea of escaping by
excavation.

It says much for the impression the Martians had made upon me that at
first I entertained little or no hope of our escape being brought about
by their overthrow through any human effort. But on the fourth or fifth
night I heard a sound like heavy guns.

It was very late in the night, and the moon was shining brightly. The
Martians had taken away the excavating-machine, and, save for a
fighting-machine that stood in the remoter bank of the pit and a
handling-machine that was buried out of my sight in a corner of the pit
immediately beneath my peephole, the place was deserted by them. Except
for the pale glow from the handling-machine and the bars and patches of
white moonlight the pit was in darkness, and, except for the clinking
of the handling-machine, quite still. That night was a beautiful
serenity; save for one planet, the moon seemed to have the sky to
herself. I heard a dog howling, and that familiar sound it was that
made me listen. Then I heard quite distinctly a booming exactly like
the sound of great guns. Six distinct reports I counted, and after a
long interval six again. And that was all.

IV.
THE DEATH OF THE CURATE.

It was on the sixth day of our imprisonment that I peeped for the last
time, and presently found myself alone. Instead of keeping close to me
and trying to oust me from the slit, the curate had gone back into the
scullery. I was struck by a sudden thought. I went back quickly and
quietly into the scullery. In the darkness I heard the curate drinking.
I snatched in the darkness, and my fingers caught a bottle of burgundy.

For a few minutes there was a tussle. The bottle struck the floor and
broke, and I desisted and rose. We stood panting and threatening each
other. In the end I planted myself between him and the food, and told
him of my determination to begin a discipline. I divided the food in
the pantry, into rations to last us ten days. I would not let him eat
any more that day. In the afternoon he made a feeble effort to get at
the food. I had been dozing, but in an instant I was awake. All day and
all night we sat face to face, I weary but resolute, and he weeping and
complaining of his immediate hunger. It was, I know, a night and a day,
but to me it seemed—it seems now—an interminable length of time.

And so our widened incompatibility ended at last in open conflict. For
two vast days we struggled in undertones and wrestling contests. There
were times when I beat and kicked him madly, times when I cajoled and
persuaded him, and once I tried to bribe him with the last bottle of
burgundy, for there was a rain-water pump from which I could get water.
But neither force nor kindness availed; he was indeed beyond reason. He
would neither desist from his attacks on the food nor from his noisy
babbling to himself. The rudimentary precautions to keep our
imprisonment endurable he would not observe. Slowly I began to realise
the complete overthrow of his intelligence, to perceive that my sole
companion in this close and sickly darkness was a man insane.

From certain vague memories I am inclined to think my own mind wandered
at times. I had strange and hideous dreams whenever I slept. It sounds
paradoxical, but I am inclined to think that the weakness and insanity
of the curate warned me, braced me, and kept me a sane man.

On the eighth day he began to talk aloud instead of whispering, and
nothing I could do would moderate his speech.

“It is just, O God!” he would say, over and over again. “It is just. On
me and mine be the punishment laid. We have sinned, we have fallen
short. There was poverty, sorrow; the poor were trodden in the dust,
and I held my peace. I preached acceptable folly—my God, what
folly!—when I should have stood up, though I died for it, and called
upon them to repent—repent! . . . Oppressors of the poor and needy! . .
. The wine press of God!”

Then he would suddenly revert to the matter of the food I withheld from
him, praying, begging, weeping, at last threatening. He began to raise
his voice—I prayed him not to. He perceived a hold on me—he threatened
he would shout and bring the Martians upon us. For a time that scared
me; but any concession would have shortened our chance of escape beyond
estimating. I defied him, although I felt no assurance that he might
not do this thing. But that day, at any rate, he did not. He talked
with his voice rising slowly, through the greater part of the eighth
and ninth days—threats, entreaties, mingled with a torrent of half-sane
and always frothy repentance for his vacant sham of God’s service, such
as made me pity him. Then he slept awhile, and began again with renewed
strength, so loudly that I must needs make him desist.

“Be still!” I implored.

He rose to his knees, for he had been sitting in the darkness near the
copper.

“I have been still too long,” he said, in a tone that must have reached
the pit, “and now I must bear my witness. Woe unto this unfaithful
city! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! To the inhabitants of the earth by
reason of the other voices of the trumpet——”

“Shut up!” I said, rising to my feet, and in a terror lest the Martians
should hear us. “For God’s sake——”

“Nay,” shouted the curate, at the top of his voice, standing likewise
and extending his arms. “Speak! The word of the Lord is upon me!”

In three strides he was at the door leading into the kitchen.

“I must bear my witness! I go! It has already been too long delayed.”

I put out my hand and felt the meat chopper hanging to the wall. In a
flash I was after him. I was fierce with fear. Before he was halfway
across the kitchen I had overtaken him. With one last touch of humanity
I turned the blade back and struck him with the butt. He went headlong
forward and lay stretched on the ground. I stumbled over him and stood
panting. He lay still.

Suddenly I heard a noise without, the run and smash of slipping
plaster, and the triangular aperture in the wall was darkened. I looked
up and saw the lower surface of a handling-machine coming slowly across
the hole. One of its gripping limbs curled amid the debris; another
limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I stood
petrified, staring. Then I saw through a sort of glass plate near the
edge of the body the face, as we may call it, and the large dark eyes
of a Martian, peering, and then a long metallic snake of tentacle came
feeling slowly through the hole.

I turned by an effort, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at the
scullery door. The tentacle was now some way, two yards or more, in the
room, and twisting and turning, with queer sudden movements, this way
and that. For a while I stood fascinated by that slow, fitful advance.
Then, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the scullery. I
trembled violently; I could scarcely stand upright. I opened the door
of the coal cellar, and stood there in the darkness staring at the
faintly lit doorway into the kitchen, and listening. Had the Martian
seen me? What was it doing now?

Something was moving to and fro there, very quietly; every now and then
it tapped against the wall, or started on its movements with a faint
metallic ringing, like the movements of keys on a split-ring. Then a
heavy body—I knew too well what—was dragged across the floor of the
kitchen towards the opening. Irresistibly attracted, I crept to the
door and peeped into the kitchen. In the triangle of bright outer
sunlight I saw the Martian, in its Briareus of a handling-machine,
scrutinizing the curate’s head. I thought at once that it would infer
my presence from the mark of the blow I had given him.

I crept back to the coal cellar, shut the door, and began to cover
myself up as much as I could, and as noiselessly as possible in the
darkness, among the firewood and coal therein. Every now and then I
paused, rigid, to hear if the Martian had thrust its tentacles through
the opening again.

Then the faint metallic jingle returned. I traced it slowly feeling
over the kitchen. Presently I heard it nearer—in the scullery, as I
judged. I thought that its length might be insufficient to reach me. I
prayed copiously. It passed, scraping faintly across the cellar door.
An age of almost intolerable suspense intervened; then I heard it
fumbling at the latch! It had found the door! The Martians understood
doors!

It worried at the catch for a minute, perhaps, and then the door
opened.

In the darkness I could just see the thing—like an elephant’s trunk
more than anything else—waving towards me and touching and examining
the wall, coals, wood and ceiling. It was like a black worm swaying its
blind head to and fro.

Once, even, it touched the heel of my boot. I was on the verge of
screaming; I bit my hand. For a time the tentacle was silent. I could
have fancied it had been withdrawn. Presently, with an abrupt click, it
gripped something—I thought it had me!—and seemed to go out of the
cellar again. For a minute I was not sure. Apparently it had taken a
lump of coal to examine.

I seized the opportunity of slightly shifting my position, which had
become cramped, and then listened. I whispered passionate prayers for
safety.

Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping towards me again.
Slowly, slowly it drew near, scratching against the walls and tapping
the furniture.

While I was still doubtful, it rapped smartly against the cellar door
and closed it. I heard it go into the pantry, and the biscuit-tins
rattled and a bottle smashed, and then came a heavy bump against the
cellar door. Then silence that passed into an infinity of suspense.

Had it gone?

At last I decided that it had.

It came into the scullery no more; but I lay all the tenth day in the
close darkness, buried among coals and firewood, not daring even to
crawl out for the drink for which I craved. It was the eleventh day
before I ventured so far from my security.

V.
THE STILLNESS.

My first act before I went into the pantry was to fasten the door
between the kitchen and the scullery. But the pantry was empty; every
scrap of food had gone. Apparently, the Martian had taken it all on the
previous day. At that discovery I despaired for the first time. I took
no food, or no drink either, on the eleventh or the twelfth day.

At first my mouth and throat were parched, and my strength ebbed
sensibly. I sat about in the darkness of the scullery, in a state of
despondent wretchedness. My mind ran on eating. I thought I had become
deaf, for the noises of movement I had been accustomed to hear from the
pit had ceased absolutely. I did not feel strong enough to crawl
noiselessly to the peephole, or I would have gone there.

On the twelfth day my throat was so painful that, taking the chance of
alarming the Martians, I attacked the creaking rain-water pump that
stood by the sink, and got a couple of glassfuls of blackened and
tainted rain water. I was greatly refreshed by this, and emboldened by
the fact that no enquiring tentacle followed the noise of my pumping.

During these days, in a rambling, inconclusive way, I thought much of
the curate and of the manner of his death.

On the thirteenth day I drank some more water, and dozed and thought
disjointedly of eating and of vague impossible plans of escape.
Whenever I dozed I dreamt of horrible phantasms, of the death of the
curate, or of sumptuous dinners; but, asleep or awake, I felt a keen
pain that urged me to drink again and again. The light that came into
the scullery was no longer grey, but red. To my disordered imagination
it seemed the colour of blood.

On the fourteenth day I went into the kitchen, and I was surprised to
find that the fronds of the red weed had grown right across the hole in
the wall, turning the half-light of the place into a crimson-coloured
obscurity.

It was early on the fifteenth day that I heard a curious, familiar
sequence of sounds in the kitchen, and, listening, identified it as the
snuffing and scratching of a dog. Going into the kitchen, I saw a dog’s
nose peering in through a break among the ruddy fronds. This greatly
surprised me. At the scent of me he barked shortly.

I thought if I could induce him to come into the place quietly I should
be able, perhaps, to kill and eat him; and in any case, it would be
advisable to kill him, lest his actions attracted the attention of the
Martians.

I crept forward, saying “Good dog!” very softly; but he suddenly
withdrew his head and disappeared.

I listened—I was not deaf—but certainly the pit was still. I heard a
sound like the flutter of a bird’s wings, and a hoarse croaking, but
that was all.

For a long while I lay close to the peephole, but not daring to move
aside the red plants that obscured it. Once or twice I heard a faint
pitter-patter like the feet of the dog going hither and thither on the
sand far below me, and there were more birdlike sounds, but that was
all. At length, encouraged by the silence, I looked out.

Except in the corner, where a multitude of crows hopped and fought over
the skeletons of the dead the Martians had consumed, there was not a
living thing in the pit.

I stared about me, scarcely believing my eyes. All the machinery had
gone. Save for the big mound of greyish-blue powder in one corner,
certain bars of aluminium in another, the black birds, and the
skeletons of the killed, the place was merely an empty circular pit in
the sand.

Slowly I thrust myself out through the red weed, and stood upon the
mound of rubble. I could see in any direction save behind me, to the
north, and neither Martians nor sign of Martians were to be seen. The
pit dropped sheerly from my feet, but a little way along the rubbish
afforded a practicable slope to the summit of the ruins. My chance of
escape had come. I began to tremble.

I hesitated for some time, and then, in a gust of desperate resolution,
and with a heart that throbbed violently, I scrambled to the top of the
mound in which I had been buried so long.

I looked about again. To the northward, too, no Martian was visible.

When I had last seen this part of Sheen in the daylight it had been a
straggling street of comfortable white and red houses, interspersed
with abundant shady trees. Now I stood on a mound of smashed brickwork,
clay, and gravel, over which spread a multitude of red cactus-shaped
plants, knee-high, without a solitary terrestrial growth to dispute
their footing. The trees near me were dead and brown, but further a
network of red thread scaled the still living stems.

The neighbouring houses had all been wrecked, but none had been burned;
their walls stood, sometimes to the second story, with smashed windows
and shattered doors. The red weed grew tumultuously in their roofless
rooms. Below me was the great pit, with the crows struggling for its
refuse. A number of other birds hopped about among the ruins. Far away
I saw a gaunt cat slink crouchingly along a wall, but traces of men
there were none.

The day seemed, by contrast with my recent confinement, dazzlingly
bright, the sky a glowing blue. A gentle breeze kept the red weed that
covered every scrap of unoccupied ground gently swaying. And oh! the
sweetness of the air!

VI.
THE WORK OF FIFTEEN DAYS.

For some time I stood tottering on the mound regardless of my safety.
Within that noisome den from which I had emerged I had thought with a
narrow intensity only of our immediate security. I had not realised
what had been happening to the world, had not anticipated this
startling vision of unfamiliar things. I had expected to see Sheen in
ruins—I found about me the landscape, weird and lurid, of another
planet.

For that moment I touched an emotion beyond the common range of men,
yet one that the poor brutes we dominate know only too well. I felt as
a rabbit might feel returning to his burrow and suddenly confronted by
the work of a dozen busy navvies digging the foundations of a house. I
felt the first inkling of a thing that presently grew quite clear in my
mind, that oppressed me for many days, a sense of dethronement, a
persuasion that I was no longer a master, but an animal among the
animals, under the Martian heel. With us it would be as with them, to
lurk and watch, to run and hide; the fear and empire of man had passed
away.

But so soon as this strangeness had been realised it passed, and my
dominant motive became the hunger of my long and dismal fast. In the
direction away from the pit I saw, beyond a red-covered wall, a patch
of garden ground unburied. This gave me a hint, and I went knee-deep,
and sometimes neck-deep, in the red weed. The density of the weed gave
me a reassuring sense of hiding. The wall was some six feet high, and
when I attempted to clamber it I found I could not lift my feet to the
crest. So I went along by the side of it, and came to a corner and a
rockwork that enabled me to get to the top, and tumble into the garden
I coveted. Here I found some young onions, a couple of gladiolus bulbs,
and a quantity of immature carrots, all of which I secured, and,
scrambling over a ruined wall, went on my way through scarlet and
crimson trees towards Kew—it was like walking through an avenue of
gigantic blood drops—possessed with two ideas: to get more food, and to
limp, as soon and as far as my strength permitted, out of this accursed
unearthly region of the pit.

Some way farther, in a grassy place, was a group of mushrooms which
also I devoured, and then I came upon a brown sheet of flowing shallow
water, where meadows used to be. These fragments of nourishment served
only to whet my hunger. At first I was surprised at this flood in a
hot, dry summer, but afterwards I discovered that it was caused by the
tropical exuberance of the red weed. Directly this extraordinary growth
encountered water it straightway became gigantic and of unparalleled
fecundity. Its seeds were simply poured down into the water of the Wey
and Thames, and its swiftly growing and Titanic water fronds speedily
choked both those rivers.

At Putney, as I afterwards saw, the bridge was almost lost in a tangle
of this weed, and at Richmond, too, the Thames water poured in a broad
and shallow stream across the meadows of Hampton and Twickenham. As the
water spread the weed followed them, until the ruined villas of the
Thames valley were for a time lost in this red swamp, whose margin I
explored, and much of the desolation the Martians had caused was
concealed.

In the end the red weed succumbed almost as quickly as it had spread. A
cankering disease, due, it is believed, to the action of certain
bacteria, presently seized upon it. Now by the action of natural
selection, all terrestrial plants have acquired a resisting power
against bacterial diseases—they never succumb without a severe
struggle, but the red weed rotted like a thing already dead. The fronds
became bleached, and then shrivelled and brittle. They broke off at the
least touch, and the waters that had stimulated their early growth
carried their last vestiges out to sea.

My first act on coming to this water was, of course, to slake my
thirst. I drank a great deal of it and, moved by an impulse, gnawed
some fronds of red weed; but they were watery, and had a sickly,
metallic taste. I found the water was sufficiently shallow for me to
wade securely, although the red weed impeded my feet a little; but the
flood evidently got deeper towards the river, and I turned back to
Mortlake. I managed to make out the road by means of occasional ruins
of its villas and fences and lamps, and so presently I got out of this
spate and made my way to the hill going up towards Roehampton and came
out on Putney Common.

Here the scenery changed from the strange and unfamiliar to the
wreckage of the familiar: patches of ground exhibited the devastation
of a cyclone, and in a few score yards I would come upon perfectly
undisturbed spaces, houses with their blinds trimly drawn and doors
closed, as if they had been left for a day by the owners, or as if
their inhabitants slept within. The red weed was less abundant; the
tall trees along the lane were free from the red creeper. I hunted for
food among the trees, finding nothing, and I also raided a couple of
silent houses, but they had already been broken into and ransacked. I
rested for the remainder of the daylight in a shrubbery, being, in my
enfeebled condition, too fatigued to push on.

All this time I saw no human beings, and no signs of the Martians. I
encountered a couple of hungry-looking dogs, but both hurried
circuitously away from the advances I made them. Near Roehampton I had
seen two human skeletons—not bodies, but skeletons, picked clean—and in
the wood by me I found the crushed and scattered bones of several cats
and rabbits and the skull of a sheep. But though I gnawed parts of
these in my mouth, there was nothing to be got from them.

After sunset I struggled on along the road towards Putney, where I
think the Heat-Ray must have been used for some reason. And in the
garden beyond Roehampton I got a quantity of immature potatoes,
sufficient to stay my hunger. From this garden one looked down upon
Putney and the river. The aspect of the place in the dusk was
singularly desolate: blackened trees, blackened, desolate ruins, and
down the hill the sheets of the flooded river, red-tinged with the
weed. And over all—silence. It filled me with indescribable terror to
think how swiftly that desolating change had come.

For a time I believed that mankind had been swept out of existence, and
that I stood there alone, the last man left alive. Hard by the top of
Putney Hill I came upon another skeleton, with the arms dislocated and
removed several yards from the rest of the body. As I proceeded I
became more and more convinced that the extermination of mankind was,
save for such stragglers as myself, already accomplished in this part
of the world. The Martians, I thought, had gone on and left the country
desolated, seeking food elsewhere. Perhaps even now they were
destroying Berlin or Paris, or it might be they had gone northward.

VII.
THE MAN ON PUTNEY HILL.

I spent that night in the inn that stands at the top of Putney Hill,
sleeping in a made bed for the first time since my flight to
Leatherhead. I will not tell the needless trouble I had breaking into
that house—afterwards I found the front door was on the latch—nor how I
ransacked every room for food, until just on the verge of despair, in
what seemed to me to be a servant’s bedroom, I found a rat-gnawed crust
and two tins of pineapple. The place had been already searched and
emptied. In the bar I afterwards found some biscuits and sandwiches
that had been overlooked. The latter I could not eat, they were too
rotten, but the former not only stayed my hunger, but filled my
pockets. I lit no lamps, fearing some Martian might come beating that
part of London for food in the night. Before I went to bed I had an
interval of restlessness, and prowled from window to window, peering
out for some sign of these monsters. I slept little. As I lay in bed I
found myself thinking consecutively—a thing I do not remember to have
done since my last argument with the curate. During all the intervening
time my mental condition had been a hurrying succession of vague
emotional states or a sort of stupid receptivity. But in the night my
brain, reinforced, I suppose, by the food I had eaten, grew clear
again, and I thought.

Three things struggled for possession of my mind: the killing of the
curate, the whereabouts of the Martians, and the possible fate of my
wife. The former gave me no sensation of horror or remorse to recall; I
saw it simply as a thing done, a memory infinitely disagreeable but
quite without the quality of remorse. I saw myself then as I see myself
now, driven step by step towards that hasty blow, the creature of a
sequence of accidents leading inevitably to that. I felt no
condemnation; yet the memory, static, unprogressive, haunted me. In the
silence of the night, with that sense of the nearness of God that
sometimes comes into the stillness and the darkness, I stood my trial,
my only trial, for that moment of wrath and fear. I retraced every step
of our conversation from the moment when I had found him crouching
beside me, heedless of my thirst, and pointing to the fire and smoke
that streamed up from the ruins of Weybridge. We had been incapable of
co-operation—grim chance had taken no heed of that. Had I foreseen, I
should have left him at Halliford. But I did not foresee; and crime is
to foresee and do. And I set this down as I have set all this story
down, as it was. There were no witnesses—all these things I might have
concealed. But I set it down, and the reader must form his judgment as
he will.

And when, by an effort, I had set aside that picture of a prostrate
body, I faced the problem of the Martians and the fate of my wife. For
the former I had no data; I could imagine a hundred things, and so,
unhappily, I could for the latter. And suddenly that night became
terrible. I found myself sitting up in bed, staring at the dark. I
found myself praying that the Heat-Ray might have suddenly and
painlessly struck her out of being. Since the night of my return from
Leatherhead I had not prayed. I had uttered prayers, fetish prayers,
had prayed as heathens mutter charms when I was in extremity; but now I
prayed indeed, pleading steadfastly and sanely, face to face with the
darkness of God. Strange night! Strangest in this, that so soon as dawn
had come, I, who had talked with God, crept out of the house like a rat
leaving its hiding place—a creature scarcely larger, an inferior
animal, a thing that for any passing whim of our masters might be
hunted and killed. Perhaps they also prayed confidently to God. Surely,
if we have learned nothing else, this war has taught us pity—pity for
those witless souls that suffer our dominion.

The morning was bright and fine, and the eastern sky glowed pink, and
was fretted with little golden clouds. In the road that runs from the
top of Putney Hill to Wimbledon was a number of poor vestiges of the
panic torrent that must have poured Londonward on the Sunday night
after the fighting began. There was a little two-wheeled cart inscribed
with the name of Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden, with a smashed
wheel and an abandoned tin trunk; there was a straw hat trampled into
the now hardened mud, and at the top of West Hill a lot of
blood-stained glass about the overturned water trough. My movements
were languid, my plans of the vaguest. I had an idea of going to
Leatherhead, though I knew that there I had the poorest chance of
finding my wife. Certainly, unless death had overtaken them suddenly,
my cousins and she would have fled thence; but it seemed to me I might
find or learn there whither the Surrey people had fled. I knew I wanted
to find my wife, that my heart ached for her and the world of men, but
I had no clear idea how the finding might be done. I was also sharply
aware now of my intense loneliness. From the corner I went, under cover
of a thicket of trees and bushes, to the edge of Wimbledon Common,
stretching wide and far.

That dark expanse was lit in patches by yellow gorse and broom; there
was no red weed to be seen, and as I prowled, hesitating, on the verge
of the open, the sun rose, flooding it all with light and vitality. I
came upon a busy swarm of little frogs in a swampy place among the
trees. I stopped to look at them, drawing a lesson from their stout
resolve to live. And presently, turning suddenly, with an odd feeling
of being watched, I beheld something crouching amid a clump of bushes.
I stood regarding this. I made a step towards it, and it rose up and
became a man armed with a cutlass. I approached him slowly. He stood
silent and motionless, regarding me.

As I drew nearer I perceived he was dressed in clothes as dusty and
filthy as my own; he looked, indeed, as though he had been dragged
through a culvert. Nearer, I distinguished the green slime of ditches
mixing with the pale drab of dried clay and shiny, coaly patches. His
black hair fell over his eyes, and his face was dark and dirty and
sunken, so that at first I did not recognise him. There was a red cut
across the lower part of his face.

“Stop!” he cried, when I was within ten yards of him, and I stopped.
His voice was hoarse. “Where do you come from?” he said.

I thought, surveying him.

“I come from Mortlake,” I said. “I was buried near the pit the Martians
made about their cylinder. I have worked my way out and escaped.”

“There is no food about here,” he said. “This is my country. All this
hill down to the river, and back to Clapham, and up to the edge of the
common. There is only food for one. Which way are you going?”

I answered slowly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have been buried in the ruins of a house
thirteen or fourteen days. I don’t know what has happened.”

He looked at me doubtfully, then started, and looked with a changed
expression.

“I’ve no wish to stop about here,” said I. “I think I shall go to
Leatherhead, for my wife was there.”

He shot out a pointing finger.

“It is you,” said he; “the man from Woking. And you weren’t killed at
Weybridge?”

I recognised him at the same moment.

“You are the artilleryman who came into my garden.”

“Good luck!” he said. “We are lucky ones! Fancy _you_!” He put out a
hand, and I took it. “I crawled up a drain,” he said. “But they didn’t
kill everyone. And after they went away I got off towards Walton across
the fields. But—— It’s not sixteen days altogether—and your hair is
grey.” He looked over his shoulder suddenly. “Only a rook,” he said.
“One gets to know that birds have shadows these days. This is a bit
open. Let us crawl under those bushes and talk.”

“Have you seen any Martians?” I said. “Since I crawled out——”

“They’ve gone away across London,” he said. “I guess they’ve got a
bigger camp there. Of a night, all over there, Hampstead way, the sky
is alive with their lights. It’s like a great city, and in the glare
you can just see them moving. By daylight you can’t. But nearer—I
haven’t seen them—” (he counted on his fingers) “five days. Then I saw
a couple across Hammersmith way carrying something big. And the night
before last”—he stopped and spoke impressively—“it was just a matter of
lights, but it was something up in the air. I believe they’ve built a
flying-machine, and are learning to fly.”

I stopped, on hands and knees, for we had come to the bushes.

“Fly!”

“Yes,” he said, “fly.”

I went on into a little bower, and sat down.

“It is all over with humanity,” I said. “If they can do that they will
simply go round the world.”

He nodded.

“They will. But—— It will relieve things over here a bit. And
besides——” He looked at me. “Aren’t you satisfied it _is_ up with
humanity? I am. We’re down; we’re beat.”

I stared. Strange as it may seem, I had not arrived at this fact—a fact
perfectly obvious so soon as he spoke. I had still held a vague hope;
rather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind. He repeated his words,
“We’re beat.” They carried absolute conviction.

“It’s all over,” he said. “They’ve lost _one_—just _one_. And they’ve
made their footing good and crippled the greatest power in the world.
They’ve walked over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was an
accident. And these are only pioneers. They kept on coming. These green
stars—I’ve seen none these five or six days, but I’ve no doubt they’re
falling somewhere every night. Nothing’s to be done. We’re under! We’re
beat!”

I made him no answer. I sat staring before me, trying in vain to devise
some countervailing thought.

“This isn’t a war,” said the artilleryman. “It never was a war, any
more than there’s war between man and ants.”

Suddenly I recalled the night in the observatory.

“After the tenth shot they fired no more—at least, until the first
cylinder came.”

“How do you know?” said the artilleryman. I explained. He thought.
“Something wrong with the gun,” he said. “But what if there is? They’ll
get it right again. And even if there’s a delay, how can it alter the
end? It’s just men and ants. There’s the ants builds their cities, live
their lives, have wars, revolutions, until the men want them out of the
way, and then they go out of the way. That’s what we are now—just ants.
Only——”

“Yes,” I said.

“We’re eatable ants.”

We sat looking at each other.

“And what will they do with us?” I said.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” he said; “that’s what I’ve been
thinking. After Weybridge I went south—thinking. I saw what was up.
Most of the people were hard at it squealing and exciting themselves.
But I’m not so fond of squealing. I’ve been in sight of death once or
twice; I’m not an ornamental soldier, and at the best and worst,
death—it’s just death. And it’s the man that keeps on thinking comes
through. I saw everyone tracking away south. Says I, ‘Food won’t last
this way,’ and I turned right back. I went for the Martians like a
sparrow goes for man. All round”—he waved a hand to the
horizon—“they’re starving in heaps, bolting, treading on each other. .
. .”

He saw my face, and halted awkwardly.

“No doubt lots who had money have gone away to France,” he said. He
seemed to hesitate whether to apologise, met my eyes, and went on:
“There’s food all about here. Canned things in shops; wines, spirits,
mineral waters; and the water mains and drains are empty. Well, I was
telling you what I was thinking. ‘Here’s intelligent things,’ I said,
‘and it seems they want us for food. First, they’ll smash us up—ships,
machines, guns, cities, all the order and organisation. All that will
go. If we were the size of ants we might pull through. But we’re not.
It’s all too bulky to stop. That’s the first certainty.’ Eh?”

I assented.

“It is; I’ve thought it out. Very well, then—next; at present we’re
caught as we’re wanted. A Martian has only to go a few miles to get a
crowd on the run. And I saw one, one day, out by Wandsworth, picking
houses to pieces and routing among the wreckage. But they won’t keep on
doing that. So soon as they’ve settled all our guns and ships, and
smashed our railways, and done all the things they are doing over
there, they will begin catching us systematic, picking the best and
storing us in cages and things. That’s what they will start doing in a
bit. Lord! They haven’t begun on us yet. Don’t you see that?”

“Not begun!” I exclaimed.

“Not begun. All that’s happened so far is through our not having the
sense to keep quiet—worrying them with guns and such foolery. And
losing our heads, and rushing off in crowds to where there wasn’t any
more safety than where we were. They don’t want to bother us yet.
They’re making their things—making all the things they couldn’t bring
with them, getting things ready for the rest of their people. Very
likely that’s why the cylinders have stopped for a bit, for fear of
hitting those who are here. And instead of our rushing about blind, on
the howl, or getting dynamite on the chance of busting them up, we’ve
got to fix ourselves up according to the new state of affairs. That’s
how I figure it out. It isn’t quite according to what a man wants for
his species, but it’s about what the facts point to. And that’s the
principle I acted upon. Cities, nations, civilisation, progress—it’s
all over. That game’s up. We’re beat.”

“But if that is so, what is there to live for?”

The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.

“There won’t be any more blessed concerts for a million years or so;
there won’t be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feeds at
restaurants. If it’s amusement you’re after, I reckon the game is up.
If you’ve got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eating peas with
a knife or dropping aitches, you’d better chuck ’em away. They ain’t no
further use.”

“You mean——”

“I mean that men like me are going on living—for the sake of the breed.
I tell you, I’m grim set on living. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ll
show what insides _you’ve_ got, too, before long. We aren’t going to be
exterminated. And I don’t mean to be caught either, and tamed and
fattened and bred like a thundering ox. Ugh! Fancy those brown
creepers!”

“You don’t mean to say——”

“I do. I’m going on, under their feet. I’ve got it planned; I’ve
thought it out. We men are beat. We don’t know enough. We’ve got to
learn before we’ve got a chance. And we’ve got to live and keep
independent while we learn. See! That’s what has to be done.”

I stared, astonished, and stirred profoundly by the man’s resolution.

“Great God!” cried I. “But you are a man indeed!” And suddenly I
gripped his hand.

“Eh!” he said, with his eyes shining. “I’ve thought it out, eh?”

“Go on,” I said.

“Well, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready. I’m
getting ready. Mind you, it isn’t all of us that are made for wild
beasts; and that’s what it’s got to be. That’s why I watched you. I had
my doubts. You’re slender. I didn’t know that it was you, you see, or
just how you’d been buried. All these—the sort of people that lived in
these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down
_that_ way—they’d be no good. They haven’t any spirit in them—no proud
dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn’t one or the other—Lord!
What is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to
work—I’ve seen hundreds of ’em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild
and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they’d
get dismissed if they didn’t; working at businesses they were afraid to
take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn’t
be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the
back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because
they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make
for safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world.
Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on
Sundays—fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well,
the Martians will just be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages,
fattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing
about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they’ll come and be
caught cheerful. They’ll be quite glad after a bit. They’ll wonder what
people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar
loafers, and mashers, and singers—I can imagine them. I can imagine
them,” he said, with a sort of sombre gratification. “There’ll be any
amount of sentiment and religion loose among them. There’s hundreds of
things I saw with my eyes that I’ve only begun to see clearly these
last few days. There’s lots will take things as they are—fat and
stupid; and lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it’s all
wrong, and that they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things
are so that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the
weak, and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always
make for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and
submit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely you’ve seen
the same thing. It’s energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside
out. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And those
of a less simple sort will work in a bit of—what is it?—eroticism.”

He paused.

“Very likely these Martians will make pets of some of them; train them
to do tricks—who knows?—get sentimental over the pet boy who grew up
and had to be killed. And some, maybe, they will train to hunt us.”

“No,” I cried, “that’s impossible! No human being——”

“What’s the good of going on with such lies?” said the artilleryman.
“There’s men who’d do it cheerful. What nonsense to pretend there
isn’t!”

And I succumbed to his conviction.

“If they come after me,” he said; “Lord, if they come after me!” and
subsided into a grim meditation.

I sat contemplating these things. I could find nothing to bring against
this man’s reasoning. In the days before the invasion no one would have
questioned my intellectual superiority to his—I, a professed and
recognised writer on philosophical themes, and he, a common soldier;
and yet he had already formulated a situation that I had scarcely
realised.

“What are you doing?” I said presently. “What plans have you made?”

He hesitated.

“Well, it’s like this,” he said. “What have we to do? We have to invent
a sort of life where men can live and breed, and be sufficiently secure
to bring the children up. Yes—wait a bit, and I’ll make it clearer what
I think ought to be done. The tame ones will go like all tame beasts;
in a few generations they’ll be big, beautiful, rich-blooded,
stupid—rubbish! The risk is that we who keep wild will go
savage—degenerate into a sort of big, savage rat. . . . You see, how I
mean to live is underground. I’ve been thinking about the drains. Of
course those who don’t know drains think horrible things; but under
this London are miles and miles—hundreds of miles—and a few days rain
and London empty will leave them sweet and clean. The main drains are
big enough and airy enough for anyone. Then there’s cellars, vaults,
stores, from which bolting passages may be made to the drains. And the
railway tunnels and subways. Eh? You begin to see? And we form a
band—able-bodied, clean-minded men. We’re not going to pick up any
rubbish that drifts in. Weaklings go out again.”

“As you meant me to go?”

“Well—I parleyed, didn’t I?”

“We won’t quarrel about that. Go on.”

“Those who stop obey orders. Able-bodied, clean-minded women we want
also—mothers and teachers. No lackadaisical ladies—no blasted rolling
eyes. We can’t have any weak or silly. Life is real again, and the
useless and cumbersome and mischievous have to die. They ought to die.
They ought to be willing to die. It’s a sort of disloyalty, after all,
to live and taint the race. And they can’t be happy. Moreover, dying’s
none so dreadful; it’s the funking makes it bad. And in all those
places we shall gather. Our district will be London. And we may even be
able to keep a watch, and run about in the open when the Martians keep
away. Play cricket, perhaps. That’s how we shall save the race. Eh?
It’s a possible thing? But saving the race is nothing in itself. As I
say, that’s only being rats. It’s saving our knowledge and adding to it
is the thing. There men like you come in. There’s books, there’s
models. We must make great safe places down deep, and get all the books
we can; not novels and poetry swipes, but ideas, science books. That’s
where men like you come in. We must go to the British Museum and pick
all those books through. Especially we must keep up our science—learn
more. We must watch these Martians. Some of us must go as spies. When
it’s all working, perhaps I will. Get caught, I mean. And the great
thing is, we must leave the Martians alone. We mustn’t even steal. If
we get in their way, we clear out. We must show them we mean no harm.
Yes, I know. But they’re intelligent things, and they won’t hunt us
down if they have all they want, and think we’re just harmless vermin.”

The artilleryman paused and laid a brown hand upon my arm.

“After all, it may not be so much we may have to learn before—Just
imagine this: four or five of their fighting machines suddenly starting
off—Heat-Rays right and left, and not a Martian in ’em. Not a Martian
in ’em, but men—men who have learned the way how. It may be in my time,
even—those men. Fancy having one of them lovely things, with its
Heat-Ray wide and free! Fancy having it in control! What would it
matter if you smashed to smithereens at the end of the run, after a
bust like that? I reckon the Martians’ll open their beautiful eyes!
Can’t you see them, man? Can’t you see them hurrying, hurrying—puffing
and blowing and hooting to their other mechanical affairs? Something
out of gear in every case. And swish, bang, rattle, swish! Just as they
are fumbling over it, _swish_ comes the Heat-Ray, and, behold! man has
come back to his own.”

For a while the imaginative daring of the artilleryman, and the tone of
assurance and courage he assumed, completely dominated my mind. I
believed unhesitatingly both in his forecast of human destiny and in
the practicability of his astonishing scheme, and the reader who thinks
me susceptible and foolish must contrast his position, reading steadily
with all his thoughts about his subject, and mine, crouching fearfully
in the bushes and listening, distracted by apprehension. We talked in
this manner through the early morning time, and later crept out of the
bushes, and, after scanning the sky for Martians, hurried precipitately
to the house on Putney Hill where he had made his lair. It was the coal
cellar of the place, and when I saw the work he had spent a week
upon—it was a burrow scarcely ten yards long, which he designed to
reach to the main drain on Putney Hill—I had my first inkling of the
gulf between his dreams and his powers. Such a hole I could have dug in
a day. But I believed in him sufficiently to work with him all that
morning until past midday at his digging. We had a garden barrow and
shot the earth we removed against the kitchen range. We refreshed
ourselves with a tin of mock-turtle soup and wine from the neighbouring
pantry. I found a curious relief from the aching strangeness of the
world in this steady labour. As we worked, I turned his project over in
my mind, and presently objections and doubts began to arise; but I
worked there all the morning, so glad was I to find myself with a
purpose again. After working an hour I began to speculate on the
distance one had to go before the cloaca was reached, the chances we
had of missing it altogether. My immediate trouble was why we should
dig this long tunnel, when it was possible to get into the drain at
once down one of the manholes, and work back to the house. It seemed to
me, too, that the house was inconveniently chosen, and required a
needless length of tunnel. And just as I was beginning to face these
things, the artilleryman stopped digging, and looked at me.

“We’re working well,” he said. He put down his spade. “Let us knock off
a bit,” he said. “I think it’s time we reconnoitred from the roof of
the house.”

I was for going on, and after a little hesitation he resumed his spade;
and then suddenly I was struck by a thought. I stopped, and so did he
at once.

“Why were you walking about the common,” I said, “instead of being
here?”

“Taking the air,” he said. “I was coming back. It’s safer by night.”

“But the work?”

“Oh, one can’t always work,” he said, and in a flash I saw the man
plain. He hesitated, holding his spade. “We ought to reconnoitre now,”
he said, “because if any come near they may hear the spades and drop
upon us unawares.”

I was no longer disposed to object. We went together to the roof and
stood on a ladder peeping out of the roof door. No Martians were to be
seen, and we ventured out on the tiles, and slipped down under shelter
of the parapet.

From this position a shrubbery hid the greater portion of Putney, but
we could see the river below, a bubbly mass of red weed, and the low
parts of Lambeth flooded and red. The red creeper swarmed up the trees
about the old palace, and their branches stretched gaunt and dead, and
set with shrivelled leaves, from amid its clusters. It was strange how
entirely dependent both these things were upon flowing water for their
propagation. About us neither had gained a footing; laburnums, pink
mays, snowballs, and trees of arbor-vitae, rose out of laurels and
hydrangeas, green and brilliant into the sunlight. Beyond Kensington
dense smoke was rising, and that and a blue haze hid the northward
hills.

The artilleryman began to tell me of the sort of people who still
remained in London.

“One night last week,” he said, “some fools got the electric light in
order, and there was all Regent Street and the Circus ablaze, crowded
with painted and ragged drunkards, men and women, dancing and shouting
till dawn. A man who was there told me. And as the day came they became
aware of a fighting-machine standing near by the Langham and looking
down at them. Heaven knows how long he had been there. It must have
given some of them a nasty turn. He came down the road towards them,
and picked up nearly a hundred too drunk or frightened to run away.”

Grotesque gleam of a time no history will ever fully describe!

From that, in answer to my questions, he came round to his grandiose
plans again. He grew enthusiastic. He talked so eloquently of the
possibility of capturing a fighting-machine that I more than half
believed in him again. But now that I was beginning to understand
something of his quality, I could divine the stress he laid on doing
nothing precipitately. And I noted that now there was no question that
he personally was to capture and fight the great machine.

After a time we went down to the cellar. Neither of us seemed disposed
to resume digging, and when he suggested a meal, I was nothing loath.
He became suddenly very generous, and when we had eaten he went away
and returned with some excellent cigars. We lit these, and his optimism
glowed. He was inclined to regard my coming as a great occasion.

“There’s some champagne in the cellar,” he said.

“We can dig better on this Thames-side burgundy,” said I.

“No,” said he; “I am host today. Champagne! Great God! We’ve a heavy
enough task before us! Let us take a rest and gather strength while we
may. Look at these blistered hands!”

And pursuant to this idea of a holiday, he insisted upon playing cards
after we had eaten. He taught me euchre, and after dividing London
between us, I taking the northern side and he the southern, we played
for parish points. Grotesque and foolish as this will seem to the sober
reader, it is absolutely true, and what is more remarkable, I found the
card game and several others we played extremely interesting.

Strange mind of man! that, with our species upon the edge of
extermination or appalling degradation, with no clear prospect before
us but the chance of a horrible death, we could sit following the
chance of this painted pasteboard, and playing the “joker” with vivid
delight. Afterwards he taught me poker, and I beat him at three tough
chess games. When dark came we decided to take the risk, and lit a
lamp.

After an interminable string of games, we supped, and the artilleryman
finished the champagne. We went on smoking the cigars. He was no longer
the energetic regenerator of his species I had encountered in the
morning. He was still optimistic, but it was a less kinetic, a more
thoughtful optimism. I remember he wound up with my health, proposed in
a speech of small variety and considerable intermittence. I took a
cigar, and went upstairs to look at the lights of which he had spoken
that blazed so greenly along the Highgate hills.

At first I stared unintelligently across the London valley. The
northern hills were shrouded in darkness; the fires near Kensington
glowed redly, and now and then an orange-red tongue of flame flashed up
and vanished in the deep blue night. All the rest of London was black.
Then, nearer, I perceived a strange light, a pale, violet-purple
fluorescent glow, quivering under the night breeze. For a space I could
not understand it, and then I knew that it must be the red weed from
which this faint irradiation proceeded. With that realisation my
dormant sense of wonder, my sense of the proportion of things, awoke
again. I glanced from that to Mars, red and clear, glowing high in the
west, and then gazed long and earnestly at the darkness of Hampstead
and Highgate.

I remained a very long time upon the roof, wondering at the grotesque
changes of the day. I recalled my mental states from the midnight
prayer to the foolish card-playing. I had a violent revulsion of
feeling. I remember I flung away the cigar with a certain wasteful
symbolism. My folly came to me with glaring exaggeration. I seemed a
traitor to my wife and to my kind; I was filled with remorse. I
resolved to leave this strange undisciplined dreamer of great things to
his drink and gluttony, and to go on into London. There, it seemed to
me, I had the best chance of learning what the Martians and my
fellowmen were doing. I was still upon the roof when the late moon
rose.

VIII.
DEAD LONDON.

After I had parted from the artilleryman, I went down the hill, and by
the High Street across the bridge to Fulham. The red weed was
tumultuous at that time, and nearly choked the bridge roadway; but its
fronds were already whitened in patches by the spreading disease that
presently removed it so swiftly.

At the corner of the lane that runs to Putney Bridge station I found a
man lying. He was as black as a sweep with the black dust, alive, but
helplessly and speechlessly drunk. I could get nothing from him but
curses and furious lunges at my head. I think I should have stayed by
him but for the brutal expression of his face.

There was black dust along the roadway from the bridge onwards, and it
grew thicker in Fulham. The streets were horribly quiet. I got
food—sour, hard, and mouldy, but quite eatable—in a baker’s shop here.
Some way towards Walham Green the streets became clear of powder, and I
passed a white terrace of houses on fire; the noise of the burning was
an absolute relief. Going on towards Brompton, the streets were quiet
again.

Here I came once more upon the black powder in the streets and upon
dead bodies. I saw altogether about a dozen in the length of the Fulham
Road. They had been dead many days, so that I hurried quickly past
them. The black powder covered them over, and softened their outlines.
One or two had been disturbed by dogs.

Where there was no black powder, it was curiously like a Sunday in the
City, with the closed shops, the houses locked up and the blinds drawn,
the desertion, and the stillness. In some places plunderers had been at
work, but rarely at other than the provision and wine shops. A
jeweller’s window had been broken open in one place, but apparently the
thief had been disturbed, and a number of gold chains and a watch lay
scattered on the pavement. I did not trouble to touch them. Farther on
was a tattered woman in a heap on a doorstep; the hand that hung over
her knee was gashed and bled down her rusty brown dress, and a smashed
magnum of champagne formed a pool across the pavement. She seemed
asleep, but she was dead.

The farther I penetrated into London, the profounder grew the
stillness. But it was not so much the stillness of death—it was the
stillness of suspense, of expectation. At any time the destruction that
had already singed the northwestern borders of the metropolis, and had
annihilated Ealing and Kilburn, might strike among these houses and
leave them smoking ruins. It was a city condemned and derelict. . . .

In South Kensington the streets were clear of dead and of black powder.
It was near South Kensington that I first heard the howling. It crept
almost imperceptibly upon my senses. It was a sobbing alternation of
two notes, “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” keeping on perpetually. When I
passed streets that ran northward it grew in volume, and houses and
buildings seemed to deaden and cut it off again. It came in a full tide
down Exhibition Road. I stopped, staring towards Kensington Gardens,
wondering at this strange, remote wailing. It was as if that mighty
desert of houses had found a voice for its fear and solitude.

“Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” wailed that superhuman note—great waves of
sound sweeping down the broad, sunlit roadway, between the tall
buildings on each side. I turned northwards, marvelling, towards the
iron gates of Hyde Park. I had half a mind to break into the Natural
History Museum and find my way up to the summits of the towers, in
order to see across the park. But I decided to keep to the ground,
where quick hiding was possible, and so went on up the Exhibition Road.
All the large mansions on each side of the road were empty and still,
and my footsteps echoed against the sides of the houses. At the top,
near the park gate, I came upon a strange sight—a bus overturned, and
the skeleton of a horse picked clean. I puzzled over this for a time,
and then went on to the bridge over the Serpentine. The voice grew
stronger and stronger, though I could see nothing above the housetops
on the north side of the park, save a haze of smoke to the northwest.

“Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” cried the voice, coming, as it seemed to me,
from the district about Regent’s Park. The desolating cry worked upon
my mind. The mood that had sustained me passed. The wailing took
possession of me. I found I was intensely weary, footsore, and now
again hungry and thirsty.

It was already past noon. Why was I wandering alone in this city of the
dead? Why was I alone when all London was lying in state, and in its
black shroud? I felt intolerably lonely. My mind ran on old friends
that I had forgotten for years. I thought of the poisons in the
chemists’ shops, of the liquors the wine merchants stored; I recalled
the two sodden creatures of despair, who so far as I knew, shared the
city with myself. . . .

I came into Oxford Street by the Marble Arch, and here again were black
powder and several bodies, and an evil, ominous smell from the gratings
of the cellars of some of the houses. I grew very thirsty after the
heat of my long walk. With infinite trouble I managed to break into a
public-house and get food and drink. I was weary after eating, and went
into the parlour behind the bar, and slept on a black horsehair sofa I
found there.

I awoke to find that dismal howling still in my ears, “Ulla, ulla,
ulla, ulla.” It was now dusk, and after I had routed out some biscuits
and a cheese in the bar—there was a meat safe, but it contained nothing
but maggots—I wandered on through the silent residential squares to
Baker Street—Portman Square is the only one I can name—and so came out
at last upon Regent’s Park. And as I emerged from the top of Baker
Street, I saw far away over the trees in the clearness of the sunset
the hood of the Martian giant from which this howling proceeded. I was
not terrified. I came upon him as if it were a matter of course. I
watched him for some time, but he did not move. He appeared to be
standing and yelling, for no reason that I could discover.

I tried to formulate a plan of action. That perpetual sound of “Ulla,
ulla, ulla, ulla,” confused my mind. Perhaps I was too tired to be very
fearful. Certainly I was more curious to know the reason of this
monotonous crying than afraid. I turned back away from the park and
struck into Park Road, intending to skirt the park, went along under
the shelter of the terraces, and got a view of this stationary, howling
Martian from the direction of St. John’s Wood. A couple of hundred
yards out of Baker Street I heard a yelping chorus, and saw, first a
dog with a piece of putrescent red meat in his jaws coming headlong
towards me, and then a pack of starving mongrels in pursuit of him. He
made a wide curve to avoid me, as though he feared I might prove a
fresh competitor. As the yelping died away down the silent road, the
wailing sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” reasserted itself.

I came upon the wrecked handling-machine halfway to St. John’s Wood
station. At first I thought a house had fallen across the road. It was
only as I clambered among the ruins that I saw, with a start, this
mechanical Samson lying, with its tentacles bent and smashed and
twisted, among the ruins it had made. The forepart was shattered. It
seemed as if it had driven blindly straight at the house, and had been
overwhelmed in its overthrow. It seemed to me then that this might have
happened by a handling-machine escaping from the guidance of its
Martian. I could not clamber among the ruins to see it, and the
twilight was now so far advanced that the blood with which its seat was
smeared, and the gnawed gristle of the Martian that the dogs had left,
were invisible to me.

Wondering still more at all that I had seen, I pushed on towards
Primrose Hill. Far away, through a gap in the trees, I saw a second
Martian, as motionless as the first, standing in the park towards the
Zoological Gardens, and silent. A little beyond the ruins about the
smashed handling-machine I came upon the red weed again, and found the
Regent’s Canal, a spongy mass of dark-red vegetation.

As I crossed the bridge, the sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” ceased.
It was, as it were, cut off. The silence came like a thunderclap.

The dusky houses about me stood faint and tall and dim; the trees
towards the park were growing black. All about me the red weed
clambered among the ruins, writhing to get above me in the dimness.
Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me. But while
that voice sounded the solitude, the desolation, had been endurable; by
virtue of it London had still seemed alive, and the sense of life about
me had upheld me. Then suddenly a change, the passing of something—I
knew not what—and then a stillness that could be felt. Nothing but this
gaunt quiet.

London about me gazed at me spectrally. The windows in the white houses
were like the eye sockets of skulls. About me my imagination found a
thousand noiseless enemies moving. Terror seized me, a horror of my
temerity. In front of me the road became pitchy black as though it was
tarred, and I saw a contorted shape lying across the pathway. I could
not bring myself to go on. I turned down St. John’s Wood Road, and ran
headlong from this unendurable stillness towards Kilburn. I hid from
the night and the silence, until long after midnight, in a cabmen’s
shelter in Harrow Road. But before the dawn my courage returned, and
while the stars were still in the sky I turned once more towards
Regent’s Park. I missed my way among the streets, and presently saw
down a long avenue, in the half-light of the early dawn, the curve of
Primrose Hill. On the summit, towering up to the fading stars, was a
third Martian, erect and motionless like the others.

An insane resolve possessed me. I would die and end it. And I would
save myself even the trouble of killing myself. I marched on recklessly
towards this Titan, and then, as I drew nearer and the light grew, I
saw that a multitude of black birds was circling and clustering about
the hood. At that my heart gave a bound, and I began running along the
road.

I hurried through the red weed that choked St. Edmund’s Terrace (I
waded breast-high across a torrent of water that was rushing down from
the waterworks towards the Albert Road), and emerged upon the grass
before the rising of the sun. Great mounds had been heaped about the
crest of the hill, making a huge redoubt of it—it was the final and
largest place the Martians had made—and from behind these heaps there
rose a thin smoke against the sky. Against the sky line an eager dog
ran and disappeared. The thought that had flashed into my mind grew
real, grew credible. I felt no fear, only a wild, trembling exultation,
as I ran up the hill towards the motionless monster. Out of the hood
hung lank shreds of brown, at which the hungry birds pecked and tore.

In another moment I had scrambled up the earthen rampart and stood upon
its crest, and the interior of the redoubt was below me. A mighty space
it was, with gigantic machines here and there within it, huge mounds of
material and strange shelter places. And scattered about it, some in
their overturned war-machines, some in the now rigid handling-machines,
and a dozen of them stark and silent and laid in a row, were the
Martians—_dead!_—slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against
which their systems were unprepared; slain as the red weed was being
slain; slain, after all man’s devices had failed, by the humblest
things that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth.

For so it had come about, as indeed I and many men might have foreseen
had not terror and disaster blinded our minds. These germs of disease
have taken toll of humanity since the beginning of things—taken toll of
our prehuman ancestors since life began here. But by virtue of this
natural selection of our kind we have developed resisting power; to no
germs do we succumb without a struggle, and to many—those that cause
putrefaction in dead matter, for instance—our living frames are
altogether immune. But there are no bacteria in Mars, and directly
these invaders arrived, directly they drank and fed, our microscopic
allies began to work their overthrow. Already when I watched them they
were irrevocably doomed, dying and rotting even as they went to and
fro. It was inevitable. By the toll of a billion deaths man has bought
his birthright of the earth, and it is his against all comers; it would
still be his were the Martians ten times as mighty as they are. For
neither do men live nor die in vain.

Here and there they were scattered, nearly fifty altogether, in that
great gulf they had made, overtaken by a death that must have seemed to
them as incomprehensible as any death could be. To me also at that time
this death was incomprehensible. All I knew was that these things that
had been alive and so terrible to men were dead. For a moment I
believed that the destruction of Sennacherib had been repeated, that
God had repented, that the Angel of Death had slain them in the night.

I stood staring into the pit, and my heart lightened gloriously, even
as the rising sun struck the world to fire about me with his rays. The
pit was still in darkness; the mighty engines, so great and wonderful
in their power and complexity, so unearthly in their tortuous forms,
rose weird and vague and strange out of the shadows towards the light.
A multitude of dogs, I could hear, fought over the bodies that lay
darkly in the depth of the pit, far below me. Across the pit on its
farther lip, flat and vast and strange, lay the great flying-machine
with which they had been experimenting upon our denser atmosphere when
decay and death arrested them. Death had come not a day too soon. At
the sound of a cawing overhead I looked up at the huge fighting-machine
that would fight no more for ever, at the tattered red shreds of flesh
that dripped down upon the overturned seats on the summit of Primrose
Hill.

I turned and looked down the slope of the hill to where, enhaloed now
in birds, stood those other two Martians that I had seen overnight,
just as death had overtaken them. The one had died, even as it had been
crying to its companions; perhaps it was the last to die, and its voice
had gone on perpetually until the force of its machinery was exhausted.
They glittered now, harmless tripod towers of shining metal, in the
brightness of the rising sun.

All about the pit, and saved as by a miracle from everlasting
destruction, stretched the great Mother of Cities. Those who have only
seen London veiled in her sombre robes of smoke can scarcely imagine
the naked clearness and beauty of the silent wilderness of houses.

Eastward, over the blackened ruins of the Albert Terrace and the
splintered spire of the church, the sun blazed dazzling in a clear sky,
and here and there some facet in the great wilderness of roofs caught
the light and glared with a white intensity.

Northward were Kilburn and Hampsted, blue and crowded with houses;
westward the great city was dimmed; and southward, beyond the Martians,
the green waves of Regent’s Park, the Langham Hotel, the dome of the
Albert Hall, the Imperial Institute, and the giant mansions of the
Brompton Road came out clear and little in the sunrise, the jagged
ruins of Westminster rising hazily beyond. Far away and blue were the
Surrey hills, and the towers of the Crystal Palace glittered like two
silver rods. The dome of St. Paul’s was dark against the sunrise, and
injured, I saw for the first time, by a huge gaping cavity on its
western side.

And as I looked at this wide expanse of houses and factories and
churches, silent and abandoned; as I thought of the multitudinous hopes
and efforts, the innumerable hosts of lives that had gone to build this
human reef, and of the swift and ruthless destruction that had hung
over it all; when I realised that the shadow had been rolled back, and
that men might still live in the streets, and this dear vast dead city
of mine be once more alive and powerful, I felt a wave of emotion that
was near akin to tears.

The torment was over. Even that day the healing would begin. The
survivors of the people scattered over the country—leaderless, lawless,
foodless, like sheep without a shepherd—the thousands who had fled by
sea, would begin to return; the pulse of life, growing stronger and
stronger, would beat again in the empty streets and pour across the
vacant squares. Whatever destruction was done, the hand of the
destroyer was stayed. All the gaunt wrecks, the blackened skeletons of
houses that stared so dismally at the sunlit grass of the hill, would
presently be echoing with the hammers of the restorers and ringing with
the tapping of their trowels. At the thought I extended my hands
towards the sky and began thanking God. In a year, thought I—in a year.
. . .

With overwhelming force came the thought of myself, of my wife, and the
old life of hope and tender helpfulness that had ceased for ever.

IX.
WRECKAGE.

And now comes the strangest thing in my story. Yet, perhaps, it is not
altogether strange. I remember, clearly and coldly and vividly, all
that I did that day until the time that I stood weeping and praising
God upon the summit of Primrose Hill. And then I forget.

Of the next three days I know nothing. I have learned since that, so
far from my being the first discoverer of the Martian overthrow,
several such wanderers as myself had already discovered this on the
previous night. One man—the first—had gone to St. Martin’s-le-Grand,
and, while I sheltered in the cabmen’s hut, had contrived to telegraph
to Paris. Thence the joyful news had flashed all over the world; a
thousand cities, chilled by ghastly apprehensions, suddenly flashed
into frantic illuminations; they knew of it in Dublin, Edinburgh,
Manchester, Birmingham, at the time when I stood upon the verge of the
pit. Already men, weeping with joy, as I have heard, shouting and
staying their work to shake hands and shout, were making up trains,
even as near as Crewe, to descend upon London. The church bells that
had ceased a fortnight since suddenly caught the news, until all
England was bell-ringing. Men on cycles, lean-faced, unkempt, scorched
along every country lane shouting of unhoped deliverance, shouting to
gaunt, staring figures of despair. And for the food! Across the
Channel, across the Irish Sea, across the Atlantic, corn, bread, and
meat were tearing to our relief. All the shipping in the world seemed
going Londonward in those days. But of all this I have no memory. I
drifted—a demented man. I found myself in a house of kindly people, who
had found me on the third day wandering, weeping, and raving through
the streets of St. John’s Wood. They have told me since that I was
singing some insane doggerel about “The Last Man Left Alive! Hurrah!
The Last Man Left Alive!” Troubled as they were with their own affairs,
these people, whose name, much as I would like to express my gratitude
to them, I may not even give here, nevertheless cumbered themselves
with me, sheltered me, and protected me from myself. Apparently they
had learned something of my story from me during the days of my lapse.

Very gently, when my mind was assured again, did they break to me what
they had learned of the fate of Leatherhead. Two days after I was
imprisoned it had been destroyed, with every soul in it, by a Martian.
He had swept it out of existence, as it seemed, without any
provocation, as a boy might crush an ant hill, in the mere wantonness
of power.

I was a lonely man, and they were very kind to me. I was a lonely man
and a sad one, and they bore with me. I remained with them four days
after my recovery. All that time I felt a vague, a growing craving to
look once more on whatever remained of the little life that seemed so
happy and bright in my past. It was a mere hopeless desire to feast
upon my misery. They dissuaded me. They did all they could to divert me
from this morbidity. But at last I could resist the impulse no longer,
and, promising faithfully to return to them, and parting, as I will
confess, from these four-day friends with tears, I went out again into
the streets that had lately been so dark and strange and empty.

Already they were busy with returning people; in places even there were
shops open, and I saw a drinking fountain running water.

I remember how mockingly bright the day seemed as I went back on my
melancholy pilgrimage to the little house at Woking, how busy the
streets and vivid the moving life about me. So many people were abroad
everywhere, busied in a thousand activities, that it seemed incredible
that any great proportion of the population could have been slain. But
then I noticed how yellow were the skins of the people I met, how
shaggy the hair of the men, how large and bright their eyes, and that
every other man still wore his dirty rags. Their faces seemed all with
one of two expressions—a leaping exultation and energy or a grim
resolution. Save for the expression of the faces, London seemed a city
of tramps. The vestries were indiscriminately distributing bread sent
us by the French government. The ribs of the few horses showed
dismally. Haggard special constables with white badges stood at the
corners of every street. I saw little of the mischief wrought by the
Martians until I reached Wellington Street, and there I saw the red
weed clambering over the buttresses of Waterloo Bridge.

At the corner of the bridge, too, I saw one of the common contrasts of
that grotesque time—a sheet of paper flaunting against a thicket of the
red weed, transfixed by a stick that kept it in place. It was the
placard of the first newspaper to resume publication—the _Daily Mail_.
I bought a copy for a blackened shilling I found in my pocket. Most of
it was in blank, but the solitary compositor who did the thing had
amused himself by making a grotesque scheme of advertisement stereo on
the back page. The matter he printed was emotional; the news
organisation had not as yet found its way back. I learned nothing fresh
except that already in one week the examination of the Martian
mechanisms had yielded astonishing results. Among other things, the
article assured me what I did not believe at the time, that the “Secret
of Flying,” was discovered. At Waterloo I found the free trains that
were taking people to their homes. The first rush was already over.
There were few people in the train, and I was in no mood for casual
conversation. I got a compartment to myself, and sat with folded arms,
looking greyly at the sunlit devastation that flowed past the windows.
And just outside the terminus the train jolted over temporary rails,
and on either side of the railway the houses were blackened ruins. To
Clapham Junction the face of London was grimy with powder of the Black
Smoke, in spite of two days of thunderstorms and rain, and at Clapham
Junction the line had been wrecked again; there were hundreds of
out-of-work clerks and shopmen working side by side with the customary
navvies, and we were jolted over a hasty relaying.

All down the line from there the aspect of the country was gaunt and
unfamiliar; Wimbledon particularly had suffered. Walton, by virtue of
its unburned pine woods, seemed the least hurt of any place along the
line. The Wandle, the Mole, every little stream, was a heaped mass of
red weed, in appearance between butcher’s meat and pickled cabbage. The
Surrey pine woods were too dry, however, for the festoons of the red
climber. Beyond Wimbledon, within sight of the line, in certain nursery
grounds, were the heaped masses of earth about the sixth cylinder. A
number of people were standing about it, and some sappers were busy in
the midst of it. Over it flaunted a Union Jack, flapping cheerfully in
the morning breeze. The nursery grounds were everywhere crimson with
the weed, a wide expanse of livid colour cut with purple shadows, and
very painful to the eye. One’s gaze went with infinite relief from the
scorched greys and sullen reds of the foreground to the blue-green
softness of the eastward hills.